SNAFU
by Linguam
Summary: There's nothing called "down-time" when your brain doesn't come with an off-switch. Dean is struggling. Sam is suspicious and concerned.


**Summary:** There's nothing called "down-time" when your brain doesn't come with an off-switch.

 **Warnings/Spoilers:** Mental instability, I guess. Set sometime after or during season 4.

 **Disclaimer:** Pfft. I wish.

 **A/N:** I wrote this one a few days ago to deal with some personal crap. It was supposed to be a drabble but, clearly, that wasn't meant to be. I've never written a story in this style or from the (dreaded) 2nd person p.o.v. before, but considering the topic this fic (indirectly) deals with, it just felt like the most natural way to go. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

 **.:. SNAFU .:.**

There's no definite time for when it started, but you guess it began to really show after you came back from Hell. Then again, it's not like your life is in short supply of instances that would be best forgotten, so it might as well be one of those things that goes farther back than memory. You try not to think about it too much. After all, it's not like it changes anything.

You're at some celebratory party to interview witnesses and gather information for a hunt, when this tsunami like wave of Duracell bunnies rushes through you and makes you go hot-cold. You lower the hand, already shaking _– crap –_ currently engaged with one of those fancy, tiny sandwiches and start looking for Sam, but you split up twenty minutes ago to cover more ground, to question more people, and you can't find him in the giant, shapeless mass surrounding you like a poisonous fog. You want to curse yourself – _so what, now you can't even do your job anymore?_ – but the breath catches in your throat like ice crystals, piercing your lungs like stalactites.

 _Fuck._

When you fail to locate Sam, you try finding the door instead, and freeze when you realize that you seem to have suddenly become the light of the party. No heads are turned your way and yet everyone is staring like your clothes have suddenly, mysteriously evaporated, seeing right through your crap and fake smiles, knowing that you shouldn't be here, don't _belong_ here, dissecting and carving with eyes like pliers burning cold and seeing staring and _knowing knowing knowing_ , seeing everything and you can't hide it, can't hide _from_ it, this intense feeling that everybody _sees_ and that they _know_ and it's all _right_ _there_ in your eyes and what the fuck's _wrong_ with you-

 _What's wrong with you?_

You blink at the woman suddenly standing in front of you, give an intelligent sounding, "Huh?" She frowns, takes a step closer. You automatically step back, bump into the dessert table. She's the petite, doe-eyed, one-hundred-percent-human type, and the room you are currently in is large enough to fit a small _house_ in, but it doesn't matter, none of it matters because the walls and bodies of too many people are crushing down on you and you need to get out, you need to get out _now_.

"I said: Are you feeling okay?" she repeats, thankfully staying put. "You seem a little… upset."

"Uh, yeah… Sure, yeah." You clear your throat, attempt a smile that feels about as real as Fergie's boobs. "Just, uh, had a bit too many of those san-" _paninis_ , _you_ _complete_ _moron_ "-uh, paninis, I guess," you lie, going for the well-tried tactic of levity, but she doesn't seem convinced and, more importantly, she doesn't go away, just keeps frowning at you with her arms crossed over her chest like she's peeling away all your defenses with nothing but her eyes.

 _What can she see?_

You swallow, make the sad excuse of a smile stay on your face by sheer force of will, rasp out, "If you'll excuse me," and use that same force of will to transport yourself and your stiffer-than-a-corpse body out of the room and its penetrating _eyes eyes eyes_ _that see_ _everything_ and into the cool evening air.

When Sam finds you sometime later, your entire nervous system feels weak and tingly, the rest of your body leaden and weirdly detached from your mind that _runs runs runs_ , and your surroundings go in and out of focus in a rhythm you have yet to decipher, but at least your lungs aren't about to collapse.

"You get it?" you ask, maybe a little breathlessly, before your little brother can start voicing all the questions that you can see burning in his eyes without even looking at him.

"Yeah, I think I got what we need…" He tilts his head, frowns. "Hey, why are you out here? Did _you_ find something?"

"What, aside from the world's smallest sandwiches?" You shake your head and move past him towards the car. "Nope, nothing."

Sam's eyes sear into your neck, leaving a permanent mark that burns so hot it threatens to liquefy your spine, before he starts to follow.

The feeling doesn't go away, but you just clench your teeth and keep walking.

 ***S*P*N***

Sam's got it in his head that you need to get out more. The two of you, together. It's hardly the worst idea in the history of mankind but, for some reason, the notion makes you uneasy.

He convinces you to go to the movies, shoots down your suggestion to go to a bar with a whiny, "We do that all the time, Dean. Why can't we try something that isn't predestined to give us cirrhosis, for a change?"

"As if we're gonna live long enough for that to happen," you mutter, before you can stop yourself. Sam gives you such a weird look that you quickly, and with much eyerolling – _if you don't look them in the eye, they won't see_ – concede.

In the darkness of the theater, you spare a breath you don't really have to curse your brother for _ever_ coming up with such a stupid stupid _stupid_ idea, because you know that this wouldn't be happening if you had followed your suggestion and gone to a bar instead. (That is, of course, a complete lie, but the fleeting pang of anger at something, at someone other than yourself makes you feel slightly better.)

Sam, eyes on the screen and some trailer for what to your rapidly diminishing field of vision looks like a historical documentary, is for once completely oblivious to what can only be described as your impending mental breakdown. He silently offers you the popcorn, and you somehow manage to concentrate enough that you don't knock the entire box on the floor. You take a fistful of dry, soft saltiness into you hand, not because you have any intention of actually eating it, but because playing along is so much easier than trying to remember how to talk when your attention is already focused on the once so simple act of breathing.

 _Such a fucking loser._

You dig your nails into your free hand hard enough to draw blood, but at least it's dark and it's only your hand and so Sam won't notice if you're quick and just shove it into your jacket pocket.

Afterwards, when the movie is over and the lights come back on and you realize, with such a strong pang of relief and _dis_ belief it makes you slightly giddy, that you somehow made it through, Sam will look down at the floor of popcorn crumbles at your feet, roll his eyes and make a comment about how wild animals have better table manners. You will grin and say something childish and glib that will inevitably lead to exasperated baby brother sighs and more eyerolling, and then maybe he won't ask your opinion on the movie.

It's not like you even remember the title.

 ***S*P*N***

One of those "the whole universe is plotting against you" kind of deals, and this time, Sam ends up bearing the brunt of it, for a change. Nothing more than a concussion – bad enough that you made the executive decision to bring him to the hospital – and a broken wrist, but there are scans and tests and questions and MRIs – because, "yes doctor, he fainted… okay, okay, passed out, whatever, stop giving me that look, jeez" – and there are doctors and nurses and interns and a specialist for whatever reason, and suddenly there are ten people huddling together in a four times three square meter room and your hearing is reduced to waves of static and everything in your vision goes blurry and gray except for the door the door _the_ _door_.

You mumble something about the Impala or insurance or food or prescriptions or something equally insignificant, force it out through a windpipe that feels like it's developed acute tonsillitis, because it's either that or passing out or, fuck, _cry_ and they can't know, Sam _can't_. _know_ how much of a fucking screw-up you _really_ are.

The nurse gives you a funny look and you know what she's thinking, _What kind of person leaves his brother to fend for himself when he's hurting?_ and you want to tell her that she doesn't know what she's talking about, doesn't know a _thing_ about you and Sam, that there's _nothing_ you wouldn't do for him, that you stole and lied and sometimes went for days without food for him before you turned double-digits _(and he still left),_ that you're the reason he didn't sink into bottomless depression those first months following Palo Alto _(instead, he got vengeful),_ that family is what is and what will always be what's most important to you _(Dad died because of you),_ that you _sold your soul_ for him _(your fear to deal with something that "big brother couldn't fix" was what got him killed in the first place),_ that you spent forty years in _Hell_ for him _(during which time he got addicted to demon blood and made friends with a manipulative, lying skank)._ So yeah, you want to tell her, _shout_ at her, yeah, maybe you fuck up, maybe you fuck up _a lot_ , but that's just what fuckups do, isn't it, and you're a royal, first-grade example of one and what the fuck can anyone expect from someone like that anyway?

Then you blink yourself back to the crowded hospital room, exchange the reality of your mind with one equally as bleak, and the nurse is still looking at you, but now there's unease in her eyes as well as judgement, and Sam is watching you too with something like concern, blinking with this wide-eyed, unguarded look of complete confusion, like he's suddenly twelve years old again and doesn't understand what he could have done to ever make you _ditch him_ , in pain, bleeding, and alone. But he must see something - _what can he_ _ **see?**_ – in your expression because he nods slowly, though not slow enough to avoid wincing, says, "Okay," and that's all the permission you need before you turn on your heel and _walk_ _run stumble flee_ out of the building.

But you can't outrun your demons.

You of all people know that.

[...]

"Did you get hurt during the hunt and not tell me about it?" is the first thing Sam says to you when he semi-staggers out of the hospital minutes – hours, days, eternities – later, eyes narrowed and expression stuck between stormy and doped to the gills.

You take him by the elbow, because if there's anything you've realized during the indefinite time you spent self-flagellating in the hospital parking lot it's that, despite everything, you're not a _complete_ failure as a brother, and drag him to the passenger seat.

"No." You wish it was that simple, hell, you really wish it were that simple.

Sam is still frowning at you when you settle behind the wheels, which would've been much more effective if he could actually focus on your face.

"There're pills in the glove compartment," you say, as if, after over twenty years, their location or Sam's threshold for pain would have suddenly changed. "Though from the looks of it, I'd say you're minutes away from going comatose on me and taking a trip to La-La Land."

He ignores you.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothin's wrong with me." Nothing you can't handle, anyway. Or at least that's what you keep telling yourself.

Sam keeps staring at you, but thankfully (thankfully?), he's too out of it, too high on painkillers and pain to pursue the subject. He's asleep five miles later.

By the time you arrive at the motel, the screaming in your head has diminished to a mere whisper. Your hands and feet are still giving these spastic little twitches, like they're trying to break away from the rest of your body, but that's just "situation normal," nowadays.

 ***S*P*N***

It's been over twenty minutes, over twenty minutes and you can swear to it that you've moved less than a mile.

You growl in tandem with your baby, shout, not for the first time, "Fucking _move_ already, willya!" because you just can't help it. It has to get out, something's gotta give, and you may be many things but you've never been one to just lie down and admit defeat, _especially_ not to something as ridiculous and insignificant as your own severely fractured psyche.

Sam sighs next to you. That isn't the first time, either.

"Don't think you yelling is gonna get us moving any faster, Dean. It's only a few more miles. We'll still be there on time."

You know that already, know that covering two hundred miles of highway on roads where the speed limit hovers around ninety mph will get you there in three and a half hours, tops – and that's the ETA for those who actually bother to follow the regulations – but that's not the _problem_ , you couldn't care less about being late to some interview that will most likely turn out to be nothing but a dead-end, you just want to _get the fuck moving already._

But you let Sam believe that this is nothing more than you just being bored and restless and don't correct him, because it's easier that way. Your leg muscles twitch with the need to move, to _bounce_ _jerk_ _kick_ _and_ _run_ , but giving in would just cause you to press down on the gas and drive into the car in front of you, and you're not _that_ desperate to get out of here.

You're _not_.

 ***S*P*N***

You're in a small diner in Who-the-hell-cares, Delaware, when your shoulders suddenly tense.

At first, you think it's your instincts alerting you to some hidden danger, supernatural or otherwise, but a quick scan of the personnel and current patrons shows nothing out of the ordinary. Then you feel that tell-tale sign of bones moving under skin stretched too tight and it's all you can do not to start screaming, because you're sick of this, sick of dealing with this _crap_ over and over and over again, and there's a delicious-looking, saliva-inducing burger with your name on it right on front of you, cheese and bacon and extra onions and everything and all you want to do is _hurl_ and fuck _fuck_ _FUCK_.

You mumble something about having to take a leak, and only narrowly avoid sending the entire plate _and_ your beer to the floor. If Sam says anything, you don't hear it as you make a (mostly non-stumbling) beeline to the, thankfully empty, restroom.

"Get a grip get a grip get a fucking grip you fucking _loser,_ " you growl between heavy pants that are completely useless in providing any oxygen to your deprived lungs. The words, unsurprisingly, don't help all that much either.

When you, some interminable time later, can stand without your vision graying out and without clinging to the yellow-stained sink like a drunkard, and have convinced yourself that you're right enough to leave the confines of the dingy restroom, that you have your mask well enough in place to at least _maybe_ fool Sam, you push the door open and almost collide with him.

"You done?" you grouse, trying to hide the fact that you just jumped back into the door like a frightened chinchilla, and simultaneously fighting the urge to physically shove aside the little brother shaped obstacle standing between you and the exit – _sweet_ _escape_ – like an impenetrable wall.

A wall with worried brown eyes and a furrowed brow.

"Yeah, sure. I'm done. Dean, what…?" But you can't listen to whatever it is he has to say, not here, not _now_ , have reached the end of your embarrassingly weak endurance, so you sidestep him and make for the door, trusting that he will take care of the bill, not caring if he won't.

The ride back to the motel is quiet, like maybe Sam can tell how close you are to completely losing your shit, but he keeps looking at you like he has half a mind to hijack the Impala and haul your ass to an ER, or maybe perform an exorcism.

A hysterical giggle shudders through your vocal chords, makes your throat feel like it's gonna explode if you don't let it out.

Yeah.

You kinda understand the guy.

 ***S*P*N***

"Dean…" Sam says one afternoon some weeks later, arms across his chest and forehead creased in a frown. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea…"

You glare at him from where you're sitting at the rickety table.

"Do I have to remind you who came up with it to begin with?" There's less bite in the words than you intended it to be, because dammit, you're actually _nervous_ about this. _Pathetic loser._ "I told you, _repeatedly,_ that I didn't like it, that I didn't _want_ it."

You had, more times than you care to remember, and it had led to plenty of verbal – and one physical – sparring matches before you finally gave in, because spending weeks on end breathing in nothing but the thick anger-mixed-worry coating the air between the two of you didn't do either of you any good.

Sam scowls harder.

"Yeah well, it sure beats your solution of 'evade and pretend.'" Before you can start protesting that that has worked _just fine_ so far, thank you very much, that that's how you've been dealing with this crap for _years,_ Sam continues on a sigh. "Dean, I'm not trying to be an ass about this, alright, it's just that you need-"

Your growl stops him from completing the sentence, because although you know it, and, what's even worse, know that now _he_ knows it, too, that doesn't make you want to hear it any more. Actually, it makes you even _less_ inclined to want to hear it.

Sam purses his lips unhappily, but stays quiet. Not that it helps; the words might as well have been shouted for how loudly they echo in the shabby motel room.

 _You need help._

"The _only_ reason," you say, through teeth brittle with tension, "I'm even _considering_ this is because you've been nagging me about it for _weeks_ and it's really starting to _piss me off._ So, decision-time: do you want me to take them or not?

"It's not about what I want, Dean…"

"Really? Great! Then I guess we can dump them in the nearest river and just forget all about this?"

Sam gives you a look.

"Yeah, didn't think so." You lean back into the chair and sigh, as frustrated as you are tired. You're always tired, these days. "Seriously dude, make up your friggin' mind already, 'cause this shillyshallying? It sure as hell ain't helping."

Sam looks up at the ceiling as if he's reconsidering calling the Angel Squad – _pretty sure they can't fix these kinds of problems, Sammy_ – and breathes out slow.

"All I'm saying," he says, gently and in a tone so placating it makes your skin crawl to have him direct it at _you,_ "is that we have no idea how you'll react. It might not exactly be a… fun… experience."

You study him in silence for a moment.

"I really don't know what you want from me here, Sam."

Sam doesn't say anything, just keeps looking at you with these sad, regretful, _soulful_ eyes like he wants to say something sappy, like, _I just want you to be okay,_ and dammit if that doesn't make you want to cry because, fuck, that's what you want too.

"Whatever happens," he says eventually, voice soft. But calm. Resolute. "However this plays out, we'll deal with it. Together. I got your back, alright?"

You look down at the tiny round pieces of white lying harmlessly in your palm, the reason for this newest discord between the two of you.

"It's twenty milligrams, Sam. I doubt it'll have much of an effect."

Your brother nods sagely.

"Then we'll deal with that, too."

 _ **Finis.**_


End file.
